The outline and the penumbra of these same qualities are to be seen in Mark Twain himself. He was emotional, impulsive, explosive, avid of praise, subject to depression and exaltation, and unprovident. But he was teachable and his eldest brother was not; experience taught him and environment influenced him, but they had no more effect upon Orion than headache has upon a drunkard. Above all, the possession that distinguished Samuel from Orion was humor.
There is much inquiry these days whether man has ceased to progress, and biologists ask themselves if evolution is at a standstill. From the standpoint of intellectuality it has apparently ceased. We have had nothing the past two thousand years that compares with the eight hundred years of unfettered thought which the human race enjoyed while Greek philosophy was supreme. That progress has ceased from the standpoint of emotionality is not so apparent, and this is the ray of hope that reaches us; for if it has not ceased, we can confidently look forward to a new code of ethics that will be livable, a new dispensation that will allow the sheep and the goats to pasture in the same field and sleep in the same shed, a new religion that will be reconcilable with science.
It transcends understanding that so much attention is given to the intellect and so little to the emotions. It is the latter, together with articulateness, that distinguish us from the beast, and approximate us to God. Humour and love are the two most precious emotional possessions. Mark Twain had them both, and none of his writings reveals them more conspicuously than his autobiography. His account of Orion’s adventure at the house of Dr. Meredith, his description of how he himself caught the measles, how he found the fifty-dollar bill and the thoughts that it engendered, how he was temporarily cured of the habit of profanity by his wife, are examples of his humour; and his accounts of Susy, of his wife, of Patrick, reveal his love. His narratives about the burglarisation of his house, the interview with President Cleveland’s wife, the potato incident at the Kaiser’s dinner party, his description of the illness and death of his little boy—as well as the testimony of his family and intimates show how enslaved he was by revery.
One of the many things that make this autobiography so delightful, is its revelation of how human Mark Twain was in his sympathies and antipathies, in his loves and hatreds. His words about Susy and Livy are as tender as anything I have read in a long time, and his account of Patrick makes one regret that the juggernaut Progress has eliminated the coachman. In the jargon of the day, Theodore Roosevelt “got his goat”; and the things he said about those who sought to crush him after they had brought about his financial ruin would not be considered printable in the Victorian era.
Mark Twain was in deadly earnest about many things he said “in fun.” I choose to believe that when he wrote, “I intend this autobiography shall become a model for all future autobiographies, and I also intend that it shall be read and admired a good many centuries because of its form and method,” he meant what he said. Whether he meant it or not it is true, and his country, proud of him, should be pleased with the account he left of himself to be published posthumously. It is ideal though it is not adequate. Those who would know what sort of man Mark Twain was may find out by reading it; those who wish to learn what he accomplished, how he did it and where, may learn from Mr. Paine’s biography of him. It is to be hoped that the rumour that there are other volumes to follow is founded in fact.
Mark Twain was a spiritual composite of Patrick, the coachman and gentleman; of Mr. Burlingame whose ways were all clean, whose motives were high and fine; of Dr. John Brown who immortalised his own name with Rab and His Friends; and of his brother Orion, as they are described by himself. The best of Hermes was beaten up in the mixture. Joe Miller and Miguel Cervantes alternated as batter beaters.
The further removed we get from the time of Henry David Thoreau, the more appealing his personality and his experiment will be to us and to our descendants. He was difficult to approach, more difficult to companion, impossible to love, and hard to admire. Death took the offence out of his egotism, the meaninglessness out of his paradoxes, the repulsion out of his self-sufficiency. We forget his congenital and laboriously acquired incapacity for enthusiasm when we read how he championed John Brown. It no longer irritates us that he was determined to base the laws of the universe on his own experiences and convictions when we see through the vista of nearly a century how he lived his hermit-like life. Time pales his peculiarities and limitations, and tints his possessions and virtues. It may safely be prophesied that, as we grow individually more sophisticated and nationally less democratic, the books that have been made from his diary will be read with greater avidity and more understanding.
A new biography of the Poet-Philosopher-Naturalist and America’s first famous recluse, written by a foreign pen, justifies these statements. Mr. Van Wyck Brooks has made a translation of the book which mirrors his culture and testifies his mastery of literary technique. It is the work of a Frenchman who stresses the Gallic and Celtic strain in Thoreau, and who sympathises with his determination to create and develop himself, to live, to make of existence the most beautiful work of art. M. Bazalgette pitches his song of praise in a high key. At times, it taxes the reader’s credulity; at other times, the high notes long sustained exhaust him. The biographer loves to dwell on Thoreau’s affectivity. He not only tells how Thoreau felt, he describes his thoughts, and the thoughts he should have had. But he makes no estimate of him as a poet, philosopher or naturalist. He submits the facts of his life, the contacts of his activity, and lets the reader draw his own conclusions. It is a picture of Thoreau that many will prefer to that drawn by Sanborn, or Channing who knew him intimately, or by Marble or Salt who were dependent upon his diaries and letters for their information; for many prefer portraits that are idealised, and he depicts his physical features as no other biographer has done. M. Bazalgette essays to reincarnate and display the poet’s thoughts on his peregrinations and pilgrimages. Some of these reflections are infantile, a few puerile, such as the description of his knapsack and the little bundle he carried in his hand; the discussion of the advantages of an umbrella over a raincoat; the discourse on shoe strings and on old newspapers.
There can be little doubt that Thoreau was sometimes playful and joyous with human beings, but I doubt if he were ever so capable of self-forgetfulness as it is alleged he was on a visit to New Bedford when he executed, before his hostess at the piano, a Zulu dance in the presence of Mr. Alcott. The story reminds one of the conduct of the First Ranger in Von Weber’s romantic opera.